


just take the very best of me

by procrastinatingbookworm



Category: Hades (Video Game 2018)
Genre: Additional Warnings In Author's Note, Consensual Kink, Consensual Non-Consent, Coping, Explicit Consent, F/M, Intersex Achilles, Kink Negotiation, Platonic BDSM, Platonic Sex, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Rape Roleplay, The Song of Achilles References, emotionally significant safewords, glancing reference to past non-con, overuse of em dashes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-15
Updated: 2021-02-15
Packaged: 2021-03-16 13:21:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,570
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29454468
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/procrastinatingbookworm/pseuds/procrastinatingbookworm
Summary: Megaera takes care of Achilles.Sequel tothere are questions i can't ask (now at last the worst is over)
Relationships: Achilles/Patroclus (mentioned), Megaera/Achilles (Hades Video Game)
Comments: 8
Kudos: 45





	just take the very best of me

**Author's Note:**

> uh,, happy valentines day.
> 
> mind the tags. this is an intense fic—everything is consensual and performed with a safeword in place, but achilles spends the scene in a very panicked, frantic headspace that might be upsetting to read if you're sensitive to depictions of non-con/rape.
> 
> there is also a brief mention of an entirely non-consensual experience achilles had in the past.
> 
> additionally: achilles is intersex. his genitalia is referred to as a cock and a slit.

“Achilles,” Megaera said, with no preamble.

Achilles tightened his grip on the bottle of nectar, straightening up slightly. It was unusual for Megaera to use his name, even when they were off duty and disposing of ‘contraband’ in the lounge.

“Yes, Mistress?”

“What do you need?” Megaera asked. “And don’t say ‘no more than you’ve already given me.’ I can tell that you’re slipping again.”

Achilles bit down on his denial. Megaera didn’t lie to him, or ask anything of him for her own pleasure. That was the agreement—she kept him in check, and he allowed her to, for the benefit of the House.

“I…” Achilles started, then cut himself off with a sigh and took a sip of nectar. “I’m aware that I am not to ask you for punishment.”

Megaera had resorted to punishment before, when Achilles could no longer swallow down the Nereid-rage that rose up from the depths of his mourning and seized him, sharpening his teeth to points and driving him to mindless violence that he could only think to inflict on himself, but it was never a goal, never a stopgap—only a last resort. 

“It would be counterproductive,” Megaera agreed, but she didn’t stop him.

“There is a scenario I have in mind,” Achilles said, setting the nectar bottle down and tracing a finger along the rim. “But I would prefer to discuss it in private.”

Megaera was quiet for a moment, then drained her nectar, picked up both the bottles, and gestured at Achilles. “Come on, then.”

Obediently, Achilles followed her. She disposed of the nectar bottles in the usual place—Charon used them, she had told him once. He would fetch them from the box where Megaera left them and reuse them to bottle his wares.

The first time he was invited to them, Achilles had expected Megaera’s chambers to be sparsely decorated, like a war-tent.

He hadn’t expected the gauzy fabric draped around the bed, or the well-worn stuffed bat, or the plush blankets.

Megaera had glared when Achilles paused in the doorway, as if daring him to say anything, but Achilles had only brushed the sheer curtains aside and laid a hand on the bed, petting at the soft fabric.

It was still the softest thing he had ever felt, of all the luxuries to be found in the House of Hades. When Megaera allowed him, he’d sit beside the bed and press the blanket against his face, rubbing it against his skin until his chest felt a little less like someone had broken it open with their hands.

But that wasn’t why he was there, today.

Instead of going to the bed, Achilles sat down on the chaise at the far side of the room, leaning his spear against the wall. 

“So?” Megaera asked.

“I know that you will not punish me,” Achilles began. He’d said that already, but it was as good a preface for his explanation as any. “But I was hoping, Mistress… I was thinking that perhaps we could create a… a false scenario.”

“You want me to pretend to punish you,” Megaera said, her voice flat. “How would that be different than actual punishment?”

“Not a punishment… in the literal sense.” If Achilles was still flesh and blood, he would definitely be blushing. He couldn’t be certain that he wasn’t, blood or no blood. “Rather, a situation in which you… use me for your pleasure. Despite any objections I might raise in the midst of it.”

Megaera drew in a breath. Sharp, quiet. Considering.

Achilles twisted his fingers together, fighting the urge to make excuses for himself. She would say no if she wasn’t interested, or if she decided it wouldn’t help him the way he thought it would. The offering was made, and it was out of his hands.

They’d had sex before. It was just another part of their arrangement—another drop in the abyss of Achilles’ yawning, starving grief. Megaera would cover his body with hers, press her hand or one of her toys against him, and hold him there until he came or cried, whichever she’d decided he needed.

They hadn’t, however, tried this.

“You would have a word,” Megaera said, jarring Achilles from his thoughts. “The same as always. So you can say ‘stop’, or ‘no’, or ‘please don’t’, or whatever it is you’re after, but you’d still have a way to end it if you needed to.”

Achilles nodded in agreement.

“The word is ‘Patroclus’,” Megaera said, in a tone that brooked no argument.

Achilles flinched, the way he always did when he heard Pat’s name. He drew his hands to his chest, twisting his fingers together, and forced himself to breathe for a count of ten, until he was almost sure that he wouldn’t weep.

“Why?” he asked, his voice thready and damp despite his best efforts.

“If you’re calling for him, I’ve gone too far,” Megaera replied, but it was gentler. “Are you sure about this, Achilles?”

Before her name was out of his mouth, Achilles was nodding. “Yes.”

Megaera brushed the curtains out of the way and sat down on the edge of the bed, bending down to unbuckle her greaves.

“We have time for this now?” Achilles couldn’t help but ask.

Megaera smiled at him. “I always have time for you,” she said, in that gentle way of hers that forced Achilles to swallow a sudden sob.

Caught between nervousness and anticipation, he watched from the chaise as Megaera undressed herself, folding her clothes and setting her armor aside. She would tell him if she wanted him to undress himself, and she hadn’t.

When she was bare, only her gold hairpiece remaining, Megaera beckoned him over, behind the faint shade of the bed-curtains.

They weren’t only for decoration, Achilles knew. They had been a gift from Nyx, Mother Night herself. They were woven with darkness, concealing everything that happened within the confines of Megaera’s bed from observation or eavesdropping.

Achilles barely had the chance to remember that, to convince himself that they were safe from scrutiny here, before Megaera seized him by the shoulders and flung him onto his back on the bed, slinging a leg over his hips and planting herself astride him.

Panic crawled up his throat, and Achilles fought back without thinking, clawing at Megaera’s forearms and trying to get his legs out from under the weight of her to kick her off of him.

(The part of him that had worried he wouldn’t be able to convince himself to react appropriately laughed, very quietly, in the back of his mind.)

Megaera was taller than him. Stronger. She pinned his wrists with ease, yanked the circlet from his hair and tossed it aside.

Achilles could do nothing to stop her. He was swift and powerful, but beneath his armor, above the corded muscle of his calves and thighs, he was slight, his stomach soft instead of taut, the hair on his skin soft and blonde, barely visible.

Like a girl, he’d been told, even though he wasn’t. Even though he had a cock, smaller than some boys had but still big enough to fit in his hand when it was hard.

_ Like a girl, _ Patroclus had said, with reverence instead of scorn, touching Achilles’ slit with a single tentative finger.

It had never mattered, in life, that Achilles was thinner than his armor made him seem. His name alone was enough of a presence, his speed and spear defense enough. Only Patroclus saw the whole of him, and Achilles  _ wanted _ Patroclus to pin him down, to use his weight and strength to press Achilles to the bed and take him, fully and completely.

Achilles wanted that from Megaera, too. He had asked her for it.

Already, his body had forgotten.

Megaera was still holding him down, her weight on his thighs and one hand wrapped around his wrists, the other working at the pin of his cloak. His belt and chestpiece were gone—he didn’t remember her removing them, but they were gone. 

“Stop,” Achilles said, barely hearing himself, barely recognizing his panic-threaded voice. “Get off of me.”

Megaera leaned over him to set the pin aside. Achilles kicked one leg free and drew it to his chest, but she was too close for him to find any leverage, he wasn’t strong enough, he couldn’t—

She pushed his knee down and to the side and held it there. She was quiet. Considering. Looking at him like a priest deliberating over a sacrifice, deciding on the sweetest cut of meat to offer to the gods.

Then she let go of his wrists, and in a single harsh movement, tore his chiton down the middle.

Achilles surged upward, throwing his full weight against her. He still had his greaves and his leather bracers, he still had some armor left, something to hit her with, he could at least  _ try,  _ he  _ had _ to try.

Megaera shoved him down.

It didn’t seem to take any effort. She didn’t bare her teeth or make a noise. She just pushed him back to the bed, pinned his arms down. Held him there as she tugged away the torn fabric, tossing his cloak and the remains of his chiton to the floor, baring the whole of his body.

Achilles tried to kick, tried to fight. Tried, at least, to cover himself.

“No,” he said, spitting it, gasping it. “No, no, no.  _ No. _ ”

Megaera didn’t listen. He had asked her not to listen, he knew that, he knew how to make this stop—the word perched in his mouth like a bird in a cage, he only had to free it and this would be over.

“Stop,” Achilles said, when she touched him. Took his cock in her hand, thumbed across his slit. Casually, as though it meant nothing. As though he wasn’t shaking under her, still trying valiantly to kick her off.

“I expected more,” Megaera said.

“I’m trying,” Achilles managed, around the sudden lump in his throat. “I’m trying, I can’t—”

The sob caught him off guard—it split his chest, wracked his throat. He heaved with it, back arching under Megaera’s weight.

“Stop,” he begged, but she didn’t.

She slid a fingertip into his slit, feeling the depth and width of it. It wasn’t a true cunt—it wouldn’t fit even the smaller of her toys. But it fit her fingers, the way it had fit Pat’s—

Megaera’s face blurred above him, lost to the haze of his tears. But he could still see blue instead of brown. She wasn’t Pat.

“Please,” Achilles said. Another fingertip, alongside the first. He sobbed, once and then again and again, couldn’t stop even when he spoke. “Please, please.”

Her fingers pressed in, just enough to ache. She folded her hand, palmed at his cock. He was hard. Did his body—such as it was—remember that he wanted this, or had it simply forgotten that it didn’t?

He had been hard when Deidameia—

No. He couldn’t linger there.

“Wait,” he tried. He lifted his head, fighting Megaera’s grip, trying to pry himself upright. Tears ran into his mouth, dripped off his chin and onto his bare chest, pooling in the hollow of his throat. 

Megaera pushed her fingers deeper. It was painful. If he was still living she might have made him bleed, if she pressed just a little further.

Achilles knew he didn’t need to breathe, but his chest was still heaving, caught between sobbing and hyperventilation. He wanted to beg, but he didn’t have the air.

Pat’s name hovered on his tongue, but Megaera was still working his cock with her palm and it felt good, it felt good even as Achilles choked on his tears and tried to keep fighting.

He could bear this, if he managed to fight. If he could convince himself that he would.

_ Too little too late _ , said Pat’s voice in his head, and Achilles  _ wailed _ , high and frantic, like a wounded, dying thing.

Megaera hesitated. Drew back, just slightly. She cared for him, Achilles knew that. She only wanted to ensure that she hadn’t pushed too far, hadn’t hurt him.

Achilles the shade remembered that Megaera had made him a promise.  _ All the kindness I am capable of _ , she had said, hands wrapped around his.  _ I can’t give you more than what I am, but I promise you what I have. _

Achilles the soldier saw an opening.

He twisted his wrists with all that remained of his strength, and freed himself just enough to bring one elbow to bear and crash it into her jaw, driving the heel of his opposite hand into the soft place under her sternum that drove the breath from the lungs.

While Megaera gasped, Achilles threw himself sideways, wrenched one leg free. He could trust his feet if he could get them under him, he could flee, not even Megaera’s strength could reach him then— 

She grabbed him by the hair.

Much later, Achilles would realize that the sensation he hadn’t been able to place at the time—something brushing his cheek and his forehead like a gust of breath across his face—was the curtain of Night. Megaera had cast it forward, to shield him.

To keep the noise he made—the frantic scream of terror—between the two of them.

It was as possessive as it was considerate, Achilles would decide.

But that would be later.

When Megaera caught him by the hair, Achilles didn’t think of the brush against his face. He didn’t think of Megaera’s hands in his, or her promise. He thought of his spear across the room, thought of all the ways he knew how to kill.

He thought  _ no, please, help, someone help me. _ He thought  _ Patroclus _ , but he didn’t say it.

He only screamed again, shrill and childish, with no words to it. Screamed and  _ screamed _ , until his throat was hoarse, even as Megaera hauled him back down, clamped her hand over his cock.

“Stop,” he begged, weeping again. His limbs buzzed with adrenaline, his mind raced. He was hard. He was hard and wet and Megaera was gentle with her hands even as her weight pressed down.

He could make this stop.

“Please,” Achilles said. “Please.”

Megaera let go of his wrists. He struck at her, tried to scream. Nothing came of it but a choking, rasping breath—he’d worn his throat raw.

She pinned his hands again and held him there, worked him with her palm and fingers.

They were both silent. Megaera’s breathing was steady—deep and even and quiet. Achilles didn’t have the strength for more than noiseless tears, even when he came.

“That’s enough,” Megaera said.

She sat Achilles up. Had him drink—water first, then nectar. Wiped his face clean, then his stomach.

“Thank you,” he said, when he’d found his voice again.

She took his face in her hands and kissed him. Chaste, gentle—there was no romance to it, only an affection born of understanding. 

“Thank you, Mistress,” Achilles repeated.

Her thumb caught a tear before it could fall. “Once more,” she said. Her hair was loose. She’d let it down, sometime that Achilles hadn’t been watching.

Achilles lifted one weary fist to his chest and bowed, until his forehead leaned against her shoulder. “Thank you.” 

Megaera ran her fingers through the very ends of his hair. “You’re welcome.”


End file.
